


The Curious Incident of the Doc In the Night-time

by Taz



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Highlander: The Series, House M.D.
Genre: Crossover, Dark Comedy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:19:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead man had the nerve to sit up and start arguing with him about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Where are you Mrs. Chapman? I know you’re here somewhere._

Normally, the morgue wasn’t so populated but, hey! heavy fog and a pilot turning left across the active runway. They’ll be dying to get in all night.

_This you? Oops, don’t think so._

It’s was still black outside, but House was down in the morgue at the behest of the nagging voice in his brain that, all night, had been sing-songing _you-missed-something-obvious _to him. He re-hung the chart back on the drawer, reached for another one and then decided to forget it. He trusted the little voice, but it had given him no sleep and the pain was at its worst in the morning. Coffee. Hot coffee. _Vicodin._ There would be time and opportunity to humiliate the Scoobies later.

_Thunk!_

Or, maybe, it was more of a muffled thump, as if someone were knocking against the inside of the drawer that he’d just hooked the chart on. The drawer in which reposed, according to that same chart, the recently and dreadfully deceased John Doe.

It was followed by two softer and more deliberate thumps.

Contemporary morgue design makes no allowance for drawers that need to be opened from the inside. The medical profession doesn’t make mistakes that require it any more. Much.

There was no bell to ring to prevent premature autopsy. There was no buzzer to alert the night shift attendant, who, as a practical matter, was out trying to score some caffeine after a long night. But someone, who wasn't dead, really wanted to get out of that drawer and was trying to not make a whole lot of noise about it. House didn’t believe in vampires, or zombies, for that matter. He did observe that his hand shook slightly as he turned the handle of the drawer sideways. He didn't pull it out, though, because interns will sleep anywhere.

At first, nothing happened, but then with a sense of apprehension, as if someone were holding their breath, the drawer cracked opened. The gap was about the width of a dime.

House snatched the chart and took a few steps backwards, holding his breath.

The big spender inside went for the whole two-bits. Finger tips appeared and pressed on the stainless steel frame.  Silently and warily, the drawer began to slide open.

Slowly and silently, House inhaled. When his lungs were about to burst, he yelled, “You’re dead!”

His voice was a pitched a triffle high to achieve the full effect, but there was a sharp crack and a yip from inside the drawer as someone banged something. House grabbed the handle and pulled it all the way open, releasing a smell of chemical char into the ice cold room, and a naked man who sat up, rubbing his forehead and glaring furiously.

“You’re dead.” House informed him. This time he had his voice under control and was able to delivere the line with the precision of a scalpel edge. It was a tone that rarely failed to draw blood, but this was one of those times.

“I think I'd know it if I was dead.” John Doe swung his legs over the side and stood up, arching his back. Then he bent over to touch his toes, work out some kinks, and take the tag off of his big right piggy .

House glanced from the chart to Doe’s uncrushed spine and noted that, where it wasn’t black and greasy, the skin was healthy and pink, particularly on the arms and left leg Doe wasn’t supposed to possess.

Doe straightened up. “May I borrow a towel?” he said.

Definitely, not an intern.

Wordlessly, House pointed to door of the processing room and Doe walked that way.

House made a face at the unfortunate chart and flipped through a few more pages. Then he unclipped the papers, dropped the clipboard in the drawer and stumped after him.

Doe had found the towels and germicidal soap and was briskly sluicing with the flexible the hose that hung over the autopsy table. Black, sooty water was running down the drain in the floor.

“You're so dead, in fact, that only way they’d be able to ID you is by your dental records. Except you've never had a cavity in your life!” Eyebrows flying, House shook the wad papers for emphasis._ Je Accuse!  
_

"So?" The dead man said. He had eyebrows, too. “I avoid sweets. Obviously, I'm not dead.”

“Oh, no, you’re dead. I’m a doctor, I know these things.”

“When it comes to that, so am I, and I say that I’m alive. Telephone?”

House pointed to the wall and was treated to a well-developed of back and haunch while Doe punched numbers. He listened, hung up, punched more numbers, and swore. He hung up and turned to look at House. There was more play with eyebrows, as well as some heavy squinting.

House sighed, and gave up the authorization code. Doe worked the phone again and waited, glancing up at the clock on the wall. Frowning he punched more buttons. This time he was connected to an operator and asked to make a person-to-person call. “Adam Pierson,” he said. It hadn't been likely that his name was Doe.

House found himself straining to hear the phone ringing at the other end and shared the sudden relaxing of tension as, somewhere, a receiver was picked up.

“Dawson...? Joe!” Someone was over-reacting at the other end of the line. “Joe! It’s me. I’m all right.” The explosion had been all over the eleven o’clock news. “I know. Where is he?” Pierson scrubbed a hand through his damp hair and briefly shaded his eyes before looking up at the clock again. “That’s 40 minutes. When he calls, tell him I’m at…?” He shot another look in House’s direction.

“Princeton-Plainesboro.”

“Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital. I’ll wait for him.”

There was silence, and then, softly, Pierson said, “I know, Joe, but you know only the good die young.”

Pierson hung up, and said, “Can I borrow some scrubs?”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” House said.

"Yes, I do," said Pierson.

They stood glaring at each. House broke first.

“Oh, come on,” he said, pivoting on the point of his cane. “I need a cup of coffee.”

 

 


	2. Physician, Heel!

The background music in the Physician’s dining room was Barry Manilow and the atmosphere equally ripe with the effluvia of steam table breakfast. The coffee was putrid. But, if yours was the study of humanity, particularly, if you were studying to avoid it, the high-backed booth in the corner by the window was the perfect observation post.

It overlooked the entrance and specimens, coming and going, at 7:28 a.m. after a night of crisis were mostly going. But there was Wilson, shower damp and early…mmm, the man was finally separated and pausing to exchange good mornings with a blonde. Get details later. Ah, Foreman, a whole half an hour early. Unhurried but, still, half an hour early. Was that a bald spot? Oh! And right behind Foreman, Cameron shaking her tight little tail. Wait five minutes and…yessss, there was Chase—under-slept and cursing House, but damned if he’d let the other two show him up.

“I love the smell of anxiety in the morning.” House glanced over and caught his booth-mate eyeing the clock. “How ‘bout you, Dr. Pierson?”

“I’d love another cup of coffee.”

“No accounting for taste.” House gestured grandly. “Mi tab es su tab.” Actually, it was Wilson’s tab, but Pierson didn’t need to know that, although, he didn’t seem to cracking under the strain of his ignorance. “Another stack of pancakes?” House called after him. “A few more waffles? Nine and twenty sausages? A ham hock? Bring back a haunch of venison and a horn of mead while you’re at it.

House leaned back in the booth and hoisted his bum leg onto the bench. It was just as easy to look out the window and easier to avoid looking at the stack of egg smeared plates across from him. Five of them, recently freighted with the entire breakfast menu, also toast, hash browns and—the acid roiling House’s stomach spiked—more of those little grape jelly containers than was comfortable to think about. How many coffees? The sugar canister had been full when they sat down. It was two-thirds empty now.

How much energy?

How many calories?

To heal that fast?

Stop asking questions.

He could see the room behind him was reflected in the window. Pierson, despite lavender Donald Duck scrubs and yellow paper booties, (Revenge is where you take it.) was charming the dragon behind the cash register. The man melted into the environment.

The red eye must have landed by now. Presumably, Pierson’s ride was on his way. Couldn’t happen soon enough.

House fumbled in his coat pockets, abruptly aware that his eyes were stinging fiercely with unshed tears. He found keys, cell phone, lighter, rubber bands, a crumpled pack of Camels, the two syringe packets he’d tucked away before going to look for Mrs. Chapman, the wadded up sheets of the Coroner’s prelim…and, finally, the Vicodin.

(Come to papa, my proud beauties.)

Pierson was back, setting twocups of coffee and a plate of sticky buns on the table. "The leg?"

“No, my Great Aunt Fanny’s leg. What quacker factory gave you a degree?”

“Salerno.”

“Don’t they still teach the Humoural Theory?”

“S’possible.” Pierson picked up a bun that dripped obscenely with caramel and pecans.

“You’re not going to eat that.” Pierson took a bite. “That sound you don’t hear is your arteries clogging.” Pierson’s lip twitched. A hint of weakness? “You’re gonna get fat.”

“Melancholia.”

“What?”

“Sardonic. Suspicious. Prone to look on the dark.” Pierson licked a finger for each symptom. “I suspect an excess of black bile. I should let blood, were I your physician, administer a strong purge and put you on a vegetable diet.”

The nerve of the man! Were I your...

“Just so you know;” House said, “they have a pill for that these days.” Pierson wagged his head. “What a wonderful modern age we live in.”

“Bite me.” Were I your physician... Whoops! There was a flutter down below.

House stretched to see. Cuddy, stepping fast. And two more members of the board—the lawyers, of course. “Tell me, my chirurgical friend, if a flock of chirping birds is called an exaltation, what’s a supervisory board in a twitter?”

“Relax.” Pierson started on another bun.

“Easy for you to say, you’re dead...”

“No one saw us”

“...and not going to get caught with the corpse.”

“Does that pathetic look work on your friends?"

“I don’t know. I haven’t got any friends.”

“Color me surprised. I’m not dead.”

“The paper in my pocket says you are! They’ll think I stole your body to have kinky sex with...” House itched to smack the smile off of Pierson’s face. “And I did.”

It didn’t work and, to add insult, Pierson missed House’s best-soul tortured expression because he was suddenly tracking a dark figure stalking purposefully along the sidewalk.

“I’ll take a rain check, Dr. House.” Pierson sat back, took the last gulp of his coffee and inhaled the last of the bun. At least the smile was gone.

“Storm blowing in?” House said. “I’ll walk out with you,” This I've gotta see.

All the way down in the elevator House fingered the pill bottle in his pocket while Pierson slouched in the corner next to the control panel. Shortly, Pierson would be out of his life. Burn that incriminating wad of notes and pffft--the little man who wasn’t there.

“You’re really a doctor?” House said.

“Told you. University of Salerno, class of ‘87”

“Let me guess. 1487.”

“1287.”

“You couldn’t cut it in medical school today.”

“You think? In my day, even before starting a degree, a ‘reputable maystre and phyisicyen had to know the proporcions of letters of gramayre, the monemens, the conclusions and sophyms of logique, the gracious speche and utterance of rethorique, the mesures of the houres and dayes, and, of course, astronomye, the nombre arsmetryk and the joyous songes of musyque.’”

“Okay. You’ve got me on the ‘joyouse songs of musyque’. The least you can do is give me have a blood sample.”

There. Asked. Sort of.

Pierson shook his head. “It wouldn’t tell you anything.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” House said. “We have better diagnostic tools than urine flasks these days.”

He was fully prepared to argue all the way to the parking garage, if that’s what it took. But, as the elevator doors parted and he set his cane on the floor, a man stepped into his way. Deliberately. Usually there was someone steaming to get on—there were documented cases of people who’d died of scurvy waiting for the hospital elevators. But this man—judging from the black circles under his eyes and unshaven chin—might have sat up all night on a cross country fight. (A better clue was the small duffle and long black case with airline security seals all over it.)

It was hard not to notice how good looking he was, in a dark rip-my-bodice-off-you-brute! sort of way. And well dressed. (House had enough experience with the rich and mighty to recognize a coat that cost more than most people’s mortgage) But also, and this was disturbing, how he was glaring at House’s cane with a flaring of nostrils and a clamping of jaw that was truly impressive. Physical handicaps provoke a range of reactions, most often pity or disgust, though, to some, a cripple with a cane is marked ‘prey’—sometimes sexual prey—but this was a new one.

“Duncan McLeod!” dour and dark announced, “Of the clan McLeod.”

“House,” House said. “Of the Levitt Town houses.”

“Mac! You brought my things!” Pierson had, finally, peeled himself out of the corner.

Dour and dark, presumably McLeod, rocked back as though he’d been stuck, fixed Pierson with a look, opened his mouth and roared, “Ya gaummy lang-nebbed glaikit nyaff! I feart ye wor fey!”

“For heaven’s sake, why?” Pierson said.

“Does he speak English?” House said.

“No, but he's fluent in glower,” Pierson said. “Mac, please, this is Dr. House. He’s been helpful.”

“Nice cane,” McLeod said.

“It was a birthday present,” House said. “Now can we move the joyful reunion out of the elevator?”

Way too public. Any minute now, there was going to be the click of Cuddy’s high heels on the stairs and McLeod wasn’t quite over whatever was biting his ass and doctors are the worst gossips in the world. There was a clutch of them yapping it up by the registration cubicles, Wilson included, giving House the ‘meet me in my office’ eye as they went out.

Later.

Pierson had relieved McLeod of the long case (Long enough to hold…what?) and, as they walked toward the 15 minute patient drop, McLeod inserted himself in between. Protective and unsubtle about it. To give McLeod credit, he didn’t look like he gave a damn. It was almost…flattering. Who, after all, needs protection from a cripple? A cripple with a cane. A cripple with a cane is marked 'prey'—unless the cane conceals 27 inches of razor sharp German steel. Who, these days, would recognize the sword cane of a 19th century Regency buck?

Except an antique dealer.

Or another antique.

House slipped his hand in his pocket.

The rental car was the sort of bloat-mobile you have to step up into. McLeod keyed the doors and popped the hatch and while Pierson was stowing his case, McLeod had to say, “Listen…”

“Don’t.” House held up his cane. Walnut with a honey gold patina and silver head. “Bit flashy. Not the sort of thing I’d have picked out myself. Were you the under-bidder?”

“No. Saw it in the catalog, though. Listen…” Of course McLeod wasn’t going to take a hint. Oh, god, his lip was trembling. “Thank-you. For me.”

“Let me give you some advice.”

“What?” McLeod said.

“He’ll be in pain for a long time but he’ll get over me. Be gentle with him for a while. Feed him.”

“He’s my oldest friend!”

“That’s what I call mine, too,” House said.

Gotcha!

McLeod was laughing as he got in and put the key in the ignition. The passenger door was open. House clumped around, took the seat belt Pierson was fumbling with and clipped it. Nice and tight.

“Guess this is it,” Pierson said. “Parting is such sweet...”

House reached in with his fist closed as though he were giving Pierson’s shoulder a good solid manly thump.

“Just a little stick and a sting,” he lied. 

The engine, roaring to life, covered Pierson’s yelp and the slammed door.

Wilson found him in his office two hours later.

“You avoiding clinic?”

“Yes. It seemed like the thing to do; Cuddy is not to found.”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“Too open ended. What haven’t I heard?”

“Legal is spinning like crazy. The morgue lost a body.”

“Really? Maybe it heard the rumor that people die in hospitals and walked out.” Something occurred to House. “Dr. Wilson, tell the truth, do you believe in fairies?”

“What kind?” Wilson’s chuckle was affectionate.

“The other kind.”

Wilson avoided his eyes.

“Oh, my God,” House said. “You clap for Tinkerbell.”

“Don’t either.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Lunch?’

“Yeah.”

The sample had been prepped and the spring-loaded biopsy needle that he'd stuck in Pierson's arm was just now bio-hazard trash.


	3. Anymore Than the Wind

“I didn’t need to get divorced in Nevada. I’ve done it successfully back home before.”

“More than once, if memory serves, but it’s more fun here.”

“No, not really.” Wilson muttered as the elevator glided to a stop on the Fifteenth floor. “And I certainly didn’t need you along for the ride.”

“Why not? I’m the reason for the divorce after all,” House said cheerfully, as the doors began to open. He said it loudly, as well, for the benefit of the bellhop who was lurking behind the brass cage of the baggage trolley. “That was a sticky wicket if I ever stuck one. I was traumatized. I deserve a vacation.

“Oh hello, Pierson! What are you doing here?”

Wilson wasn’t sure which of the two men standing at the entrance to the elevator House was talking to. He assumed it was the pained-looking one. He was wrong.

“I told you a biopsy wouldn’t give you anything,” the skinny, beaky one said as they passed.

“_Au contraire mon frere_,” House said. “It told me a great deal.”

“Liar.” The amused voice drifted out to them as the doors closed.

House shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to try. What’s our room number again? Oh wait, it’s the bridal suite, isn’t it?”

“If that’s a hint for me to carry you over the threshold…” Wilson slipped the key card into the door slot. The light turned green, and he opened the door to a room that was so mauve that it hurt. Everything was color coordinated from the mirror frames, to the counterpanes, to the dense sound-absorbing carpet, to the _petit chocolat_ in lavender foil squatting in the middle the round accent pillows on each of the queen-size beds.

“…Forget it.”

“Where’s the spontaneity? Give in to the moment. I thought you were going to make an honest woman of me.”

House sat down on the nearest bed while the bellhop unloaded their bags and demonstrated the features of the mini-bar. Wilson finally handed a five dollar bill, he finally wished them a pleasant stay and went away.

“You want the bathroom?” Wilson said.

“No. You go ahead…” House was leaning forward scowling at the television set.

Wilson disappeared into the bathroom. He reappeared minutes later damp and downy. “Drink now, or later?”

“Drink now,” House said. Wilson reached for the room-service folder. “Downstairs.”

“Are you sure?”

Trains, planes and automobiles will tire the strongest traveler. When you add pain pills and alcohol to the mix…

“I need the exercise,” House said.

As they walked out, the television screen was still glowing with the announcement that the Bellagio was proud to host the _12th Annual International Conference of Forensic Archaeology_. _Welcoming mixer in the Monet Room._

In the lobby, acres of crystal and polished marble were working hard to embarrassing a breathtaking exhibit of Chihuly’s glass flowers, and almost succeeding. Everything around them shouted that this was a stately pleasure dome that no one would ever want to leave it.

The confusion of glitter hid the exits from anyone silly enough to imagine they could, but Wilson had marked out the lounge on their way to the elevator. It was down the hall to the left. House turned right.

“What are you doing?”

“Turning this trip into a tax deduction.”

“We’re not going to crash a reception.”

“Bet?”

Past the Grand Ballroom, the Monet Room’s open double doors were open and emitting a buzz of excited chatter, along with a tinkling undertone as of glassware being struck lightly.

“It’s a convention,” Wilson groaned.

“Of course, it’s a convention. And we’re convening.”

The double doors were defended by two tables, one manned by a vivid red-head and the other a soft blonde. Both of them were armed equally with badges, information packets, and lap-tops, but the red-head’s name-tag read, _Hi! My name is Cherry_.

“Dear God!” Wilson groaned.

“Down boy,” House said, under his breath. “I saw her first.”

Exaggerating the limp, he advanced, smiling. “Dr. Gregory House and Dr. James Wilson.”

Wilson inspected the ceiling. Cherry inspected the badges. Then she consulted her clipboard. “I’m sorry Dr. House. I can’t seem to find your registration.”

“Are you sure? Dr. Wilson was going to have his assistant, Miss Cuddy, put them in the mail.”

“I can’t find Dr. Wilson’s either.”

House spun on Wilson. “You forgot to tell her, didn’t you!?”

“What…! I didn’t forget anything!”

“Then she’s incompetent! Fire that Cuddy when we get home!”

“No! Dr. House!” Cherry was flustered. “It’s all right. We can sign you up right here. You just won’t get the discount for early registration.”

“Oh, well. In that case…” House permitted himself to be mollified. “Miss Cuddy can keep her job.

“That will be three hundred and fifty each. Are you going to want tickets for the banquet?”

“Of course we’re going to want tickets to the banquet.”

“That will be another hundred and fifty.”

House looked sideways at Wilson. “I seem to have left my checkbook in my other pants,” he said.

“Surrender Dorothy,” Wilson said, staring inscrutably at the ceiling.

“Alright. If that’s the way you’re going to be.”

Wilson got out his checkbook, as Cherry, oblivious of the fact that the option on her affections had been transferred, produced pens and blank registration forms. In very little time they were admitted to the crowded ballroom, equipped with programs, and badges. House made straight for the alcohol.

“I love an open bar,” he said, dragging Wilson in his wake.

There was a short line, and they skimmed their programs, while they waited. “I’ll bet we can get Cuddy to reimburse you.”

“Never happen. This looks interesting, but it’s not actually relevant to anything we do.”

“I know, but I’m going to need something to occupy myself with while you’re uncoupling. Scotch or rye?”

“Rye.”

House, taller and quicker than the man in front of him,Ho caught the bartender’s eye and made the universal sign of two doubles.

“What’s wrong with spending your time gambling and whoring?” Wilson said, as House handed him a glass. They found an empty spot, clicked glasses and sipped. “I understand Las Vegas is famous for those two things in particular. In fact I thought that’s why you insisted on coming.”

“I was, but something came up.”

“I though he went down.”

“You’re going to make me pay for this, aren’t you?”

“And the banquet tickets.” Wilson took a quick look around. It was a tweed and corduroy jacket crowd, with almost many jeans as chinos with the jackets. He was a bit overdressed, but House fit in. “I don’t see him. What’s the big deal?”

“I don’t know. And I can’t talk about it.”

“Wow! Doctor/patient confidentiality. That’s a first.”

“Not exactly. More of a…” House made a face like he was being forced to suck a lemon. “Have you ever known me to be perplexed?”

“No, you tend to be the vector for perplexing in other people, unless… Are we talking about your people skills, by any chance?”

“No. I know you can’t tell, because I hide it so well, but you see before you a baffled, bewildered and, possibly, bamboozled man, but definitely one who has been abso-fuking-lutely gob-smacked.”

“Wow! I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”

“I know. But you do know how rare that is. It’s so rare, that if I weren’t me, I’d join a contemplative order just so that I could spend the rest of my life contemplating that fact.”

Wilson contemplated the level of whiskey in his glass. All around him, enthusiastic conversions, possibly sane, meaningful conversations, were happening. Not one of which he was a part of. “Open bar, you said?”

He was saved by an older man nearby, who was leaning on an elbow crutch. The man had been standing with his back to them, when he wheeled around, and said, “I knew that smarmy voice had to be Gregory House!”

“Al Robbins! My God! You’re still bald.”

“And you’re still a jerk. What are you doing here? I didn’t see your name on the lists of attendees.”

“I’m looking into changing specialties, and considering pathology.”

“Good thinking. Dead people don’t talk back.”

“I know. It must be so restful.”

Robbins had a fringe of silver hair and wicked blue eyes. Not as blue or as curious, though, as the man he had been talking to, who now cleared his throat.

“Sorry, Gil.” Robbins brought him into the circle. “This is Dr. Gregory House. Dr. House is head of Diagnostic Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital. House, Gil Grissom, CSI.”

“CSI?”

“Forensics.”

“Then you see dead things, too?” House said, probing to see if Grissom fit into the medical pecking order.

“All the time.” Grissom said. “How long has it been since you two…?”

“Five years,” Robbins said. “Before that, we were at Hopkins together.”

“Now we’re gimps together,” House said, hooking his arm through Robbins’.

“Relax, House,” Robbins said. “Gil’s a bug man. Unless you have more than four legs, you can’t compete.”

“Why would I want to compete?”

“Actually, I was wondering what you were doing here, Dr. House,” Grissom said. “Isn’t this outside your purview?”

“A happy accident. My colleague here, Dr. Wilson, is shedding another of his brides. Unlike Bluebeard, a man whose efficiency I admire, he’s doing it legally. I decided to tag along and do some casual whoring, but when I saw this delightful convocation was going on, it looked like a lot of fun, and I never resist temptation.”

“Ever?” Grissom said.

“Never,” said House.

“If you’re going to flirt, gentlemen,” Robbins said. “Do it elsewhere. You’re making Dr. Wilson uncomfortable.”

“Don’t mind me, I’m only an oncologist.” Wilson said, bitterly, to his whiskey. Grissom looked amused. “I was shanghaied. You said CSI, Dr. Grissom?”

Grissom didn’t deny the title. “I did. LVPD Crime Scene Investigation.”

Wilson blinked. “That relates to archaeology?”

“Absolutely, it does. Osteoarcheology. Taphonic processes. In a desert environment it can be difficult to tell the age of remains. The whole team is here…” Grissom glanced around. “Somewhere. This is one of the best cross-disciplinary learning experiences…experts in everything from Disaster Victim Identification techniques, to identifying what marks and wounds were inflicted by prehistoric weapons, to… ” As Grissom was speaking he had continued scanning the room, and something had caught his attention. “Excuse me a moment, I have to go save someone’s life.”

“What?” Robbins said. He looked in the direction of Grissom’s gaze. “Oh. Lord. Run.”

Grissom took off and the three watched him work his way across the room and interrupt a group of five or six gathered around a man whom Wilson recognized as the pained-looking one who had gotten on the elevator earlier. He still looked strained but it the cause was probably the overwhelming enthusiasm of the group was bubbling around him like a swarm of puppies. It looked as if all of them were trying to talk to him at the same time.

Grissom broke in, saying something brightly, and took a grip on the elbow of the most enthusiastic talker. When he turned, towing his victim, and two other men in his wake, Robbins groaned. “Not here. Don’t bring them here.”

Almost there, Grissom’s captive could be heard protesting, “But that two-handed broadsword has to be from—”

“Hodges! Give it a break,” Grissom was saying. “Ask your questions after—”

“No, Gil! Hodges, is right!” one of the others broke in. “That can’t be a—”

“Stop!” Grissom let go of Hodges, and help up his hands for silence. “I don’t care. Mingle and socialize doesn’t mean gang-up. Now, scram! Don’t let me see two of you at the same time, in the same place.”

Hodges and another took the hint. The third, and youngest, followed Grissom, who didn’t seem to mind.

From the puff of relief he gave, neither did Robbins.

“What was that about?” he said.

Before answering, the newcomer shot a quick look at Grissom for permission and, receiving the nod, said, “The swords! You have to see the display of swords. That guy is one of the swordsmen.” In his excitement he pulled his fists up to his shoulders. “Where’s Nick? I have to find him.”

“Go,” Grissom said. “Look for Nick.

“Lab techs,” he said, when the youngster had gone. “We need to let them out of their cages more often.”

“Swords!?” House said. “Are you serious?”

“Serious as death,” Grissom said. “Can I get you guys a refill?”

Wilson saw that the gloomy swordsman had been joined by his beaky friend, and was actually laughing as they walked out of the room together.

**Author's Note:**

> It seems that after all these years there really was more to come.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Archiater[1] in Noctem (or, the Singular Experience of Dr. Adam Pierson)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109) by [lferion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion)




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